


THAT'S THE SPIRIT

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Written for: </b> <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/"><b>sherlockbbc</b></a>'s Make Me a Monday prompt for <a href="http://schwarze-elster.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://schwarze-elster.livejournal.com/"><b>schwarze_elster</b></a> who wanted drunk!Sherlock<br/><b>Beta by: </b><a href="http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/"><b>_doodle</b></a></p>
    </blockquote>





	THAT'S THE SPIRIT

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for:** [](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/profile)[**sherlockbbc**](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/)'s Make Me a Monday prompt for [](http://schwarze-elster.livejournal.com/profile)[**schwarze_elster**](http://schwarze-elster.livejournal.com/) who wanted drunk!Sherlock  
>  **Beta by:**[](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile)[ **_doodle**](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/)

It was impossibly, bitterly cold. John could no longer feel his feet, although they led him reliably to Baker Street, and he was pretty sure his nose would never forgive him and would be a big red bulb for the rest of his life. He wanted nothing more than to be home, with tea, wrapped in every blanket he owned.

He came into the flat and there was Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa surrounded by a mess of his own making, only today’s mess seemed to consist of a coffee table full of empty beer cans, glasses, and a half-bottle of whiskey.

“Has my sister been here?” John demanded.

Sherlock looked up from his contemplation of the bottles. “Yes, no, wait. What?”

“My sister,” John repeated. “Has she been here? Is she still here?”

“Your sister was here, but now she is gone. And she did not drink. I mean, this one’s hers,” Sherlock said, poking a wine glass and knocking it over.

“And the rest?”

“Mine!” Sherlock leaned back into the sofa. “It was an experiment.” To John it sounded like _ssssaanexperahmen_.

“Sorry, are you _drunk?_ ” This sort of thing was new, but just as messy as Sherlock’s other experiments, with everyone else’s health and well-being at risk.

“You see,” Sherlock slurred, “I had to know what the _point_ of alcohol addiction was. Is.”

“My sister challenged you.”

“No, she just tried to explain how _amazing_ beer is. And hard liquor. Spirits and beer. Together. And she’s right, it’s marvelous.”

“It’s not marvelous when you’re puking your guts out and embarrassing your friends and family with dramatic, nasty outbursts.”

“Then I should be fine. I never throw up and I don’t have any friends. Family embarrass themselves, they deserve a little retribution.”

“How lovely,” John said. He went to put the kettle on. First, warmth, then gathering the bottles for the green bin. “And I resent you saying you don’t have any friends. What am I, your landlady?”

Sherlock seemed to find this hilarious. “Housekeeper dear! You’re my housekeeper.”

“Yes, funny, I thought I was your friend.”

“Dear John. You are my friend. I was just speaking... oh, of nothing.”

“That’s what drunk people do.”

“ _That’s what drunk people DO,_ ” Sherlock said, perfectly mimicking Moriarty’s voice.

“Please don’t do that, it’s unforgivably creepy.” John returned after a few more minutes, tea in hand, looking around for a blanket. “I need a blanket.”

“Why, are you in shock?” Sherlock smiled. John stared at him. He had never seen a smile quite like that unfurl on Sherlock’s face. It was easy and relaxed, natural.

John giggled and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. _God, don’t encourage him,_ he thought.

Sherlock actually threw back his head and laughed. John stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Sherlock’s long, graceful neck. The now-wrinkled plum-coloured shirt he was wearing was unbuttoned to at the top, and when his head came back around, curly dark hair fell over his smiling eyes. He was one of the most beautiful things John had ever seen. The sound of his laugh was the most beautiful thing John had ever _heard_.

He reminded himself that alcoholism was an ugly disease.

“No giggling at crime scenes, John,” Sherlock said, sweeping his hand to indicate the bottles and continuing to smile. He was starting to look a bit _goofy_.

“Sherlock. Are you... are you having _fun?_ ”

“Fun.” Sherlock said the word as if it were completely new to him. As if he was trying to parse a difficult Latin phrase. “Fun.”

“A good time,” John prompted. He sat in his chair, having given up on the search for a cozy blanket.

“Yes. Yes I am. I’m having fun. John, have fun with me!” Sherlock grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a used, greasy glass from the table. He poured a healthy amount into it, then sprang up and brought it to John. John took it uneasily.

“Look, you’re cold, right? Freezing. I’ve seen the weather forecast. This lovely substance,” Sherlock held up the whiskey bottle like he was a bloody advert. “Will make you quite warm.”

“I have had whiskey before, Sherlock.”

“Brilliant! Then you know.”

“When you make such a logical argument, it’s hard to refuse.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded, as if he were being praised for the deduction of the fake Vermeer. John shrugged and set his tea down. He took a sip of the whiskey. “That’s the spirit,” Sherlock said. He lisped slightly on the “s.”

“Do you have a lisp?” John asked.

“Hm. No. Not usually. My lips do feel a bit tingly, though.” Sherlock began prodding his lips. John tried not to stare. He drank an usually large gulp of whiskey and felt the pleasurable burn all the way down.

“She sells seashells by the seashore,” Sherlock said, with perfect consonants. The man could focus like a laser beam in spite of himself.

“The lisping thing was kind of brilliant actually,” John said.

“Perhaps I need more whiskey, then. And oh! Beer of your choice to wash it down.” He got up and nearly sprinted to the kitchen.

“I’ve never seen you move so fast in the direction of the kitchen before,” John said. “Particularly seeing as how you’re getting something yourself.”

Sherlock laughed. “I completely forgot to ask you to get them for me.” He handed John an opened beer. “See how marvelous it is when you drink _this_.”

“Sherlock, I have had beer before as well. With whiskey. I have been drunk before. It’s not like you invented it.”

“No, I would have invented the cure for a hangover if I had. In fact, I’m sure that I can.” He laid back on the sofa and pressed his hands together, resting them under his chin.

“Well, that would be useful. Very useful.”

“Why, are you drunk?” Sherlock turned his head and opened one eye.

“Not yet. And I don’t plan to be.”

Sherlock swiveled around and sat up, as if he’d just solved a case. His eyebrows were working up and down and John watched in fascination. He’d never seen Sherlock cycle through so many expressions at once, all at the same time. Usually it was a raised eyebrow here, an eyeroll there, a quick purse of the lips... but not all at the same time.

“Stop whatever you’re doing with your face. It’s disturbing,” John said. Sherlock looked at him wide-eyed. “Don’t do that, either. Wait, are you seriously saying you’ve never been drunk before?”

“‘Course I have,” Sherlock snorted. “I just. Took a break for a while. From alcohol, if you will.”

“But drugs.”

“Yes, drugs.”

“Would you say you’re an addictive personality?”

Sherlock roared with laughter.

John looked at him, puzzled. Okay, he was no psychotherapist, but he had seen addiction before. He’d known coalition personnel in Afghanistan who would overlook certain farmers’ poppy fields in exchange for free visits to the opium huts or for a few bricks of opium for personal use. If the farmer and his field didn’t exist on record, the poppies were that much less likely to be burnt to the ground when the Afghan police came through. Far from home, wracked by guilt or boredom, or just plain terrified, it wasn’t that far-fetched that some soldiers came to rely on opium to the point of no return. He’d signed off on a number of dis-honorary discharge papers for that.

“When I went to Sar Ab, in Badakhshan, I can tell you...”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts him. “I have been reliably informed that my personality isn’t addictive. Most people can hardly stand my presence more than a few times.”

“You’re... Sherlock. You git. Stop making stupid jokes. I’m serious. With the drugs, the nicotine...”

“Yes, John, I am easily addicted, I’m an addict. Nicotine, cocaine, adrenalin. Yes. Is that what you wanted to know? You could have asked me before.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. More whiskey was needed for these types of conversations. “I’m not good with addiction, you know.”

“On the contrary, I think you are marvelously equipped to deal with addicts. Your sister, your patients, me.” Sherlock rose and moved to the chair opposite John. He folded his hands underneath his chin again and looked at John. “But you do not have to worry about me.”

“I know, I know. Easier said than done.”

“I’m not your family. I’m not your patient.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean I don’t care.” John sighed and leaned back. When did the conversation shift to serious topics?

“Well here’s some good news,” Sherlock said, grinning. “As it happens, I’m not a lousy drunk. It seems I’m a very affable drunk. Less reticent, even. I’m a very good drunk.”

“I don’t want you to _be_ a drunk.”

“Oh don’t worry. I can’t indulge like this when there’s a case on, which there always is. But I’m allowed to unwind, aren’t I?”

“Oh look, you’re a whiny drunk as well,” John said.

Sherlock laughed again. “And you’re a petulant, maudlin drunk.”

“I’m not!” John said. Okay, he was starting to feel the effects, but it tasted like more, so what the hell. “I’m actually a verbose drunk.”

“Wonderful. Are you still cold?”

“I think I’m beginning to get warm, thank you.” And before John could describe how cold he had been, how the wind had driven through to his bones, Sherlock was on his knees before his chair, looking up at him. “What, what are you doing?”

“I think I’m very drunk, John,” Sherlock said. He wobbled only slightly and his eyes remained trained on John’s. He looked a little surprised. “And I think I’m going to kiss you.”

John’s vision narrowed. His hand shook. The amber liquid in the glass sloshed around and that was certainly what his brain was doing inside his skull as well. Sloshing around inside an amber liquid. Sherlock’s lips were quite close. Red, from where he’d pinched them.

He meant to say, _that’s not such a good idea_ , or something like that. _I’m not gay_ , maybe. But what came out instead was “And I think I’m going to let you.” Sherlock leaned up and kissed him, and just like that, he was kissing Sherlock.

He found that once he started kissing Sherlock, it was going to be difficult to stop. He didn’t want any awkward pauses. He certainly didn’t want any next-day regrets. But Sherlock’s mouth tasted like whiskey and warmth. It was soft, it was perfect.

Sherlock broke the kiss and stood. John was ready to launch into a stream of apologies, excuses, explanations, but before he could, Sherlock got into the chair with him. He straddled John and placed his hands around John’s head and resumed kissing him. And, oh god, it was even _better._

“Warm now, John?” Sherlock asked, eventually, when it seemed they both needed some air.

“Stifling,” John said. He could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing against his own and it should have seemed a lot more strange than it did. “You’re... ah.. drunk, and we should not be doing this.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Sherlock said, his face thoughtful, as if he wasn’t straddling his flatmate. “I’m having fun.”

“And there’s not even a case on,” John said.

“No, and I’m feeling wonderful,” Sherlock said. “Wonderful. Let’s have more beer. And tomorrow you can make me tea and bring me paracetamol.”

“And everything will go back to normal?” John didn’t know what he was feeling hopeful about. The idea that things would go back to normal, or that they wouldn’t and everything would be different. He was probably just drunk, but he felt _very_ different already.

“I’ll have an experiment to do, however.”

John groaned. “Beer cans or body parts?”

“Body parts,” Sherlock answered. “What is it like to kiss John Watson while sober?”

“That’s an interesting experiment.”

“Could get messy,” Sherlock warned. “Could be dangerous.”

“That’s life,” John said. “Count me in.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sherlock said, and there was a slight lisp to his “s”. Five minutes later he was sound asleep, curled up on top of John and breathing deeply.

  
.


End file.
